


Creature of the Night

by spiral_static



Category: Being Human (UK), Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: 16th Century CE, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Conversations, Gen, Hal Yorke/Dracula Untertones, Human!Dracula, More Feelings Than I Had Bargained For, Nothing explicit, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampire Turning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiral_static/pseuds/spiral_static
Summary: The lord of the castle gets more than he bargains for when he invites a weary traveller into his home.
Kudos: 17





	Creature of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Being Human UK/BBC Dracula crossover inspired by [this tumblr post](https://drjohnweston.tumblr.com/post/190181840998/drjohnweston-dracula-2020-being-human-2012).
> 
> Follows the Being Human UK lore, but borrowing Claes Bang's excellent Dracula character. I just couldn't pass up a chance to have those two characters meet.
> 
> I was having a blast writing this, and I hope you like it! Please let me know what you think :)

**Borgo Pass, Transylvania  
1535**

Henry’s tired and burning eyes roam across the vast, tree-covered countryside, down the narrow mountain pass in front of him, and come to rest on the foreboding looking roofs and towers of a castle in the distance. A castle probably means a village, he thinks, and his stomach gives a little somersault. It has been too long since he has fed, too long since he has even seen so much as a human soul, and living on nothing but wolves and deer and rabbits has started to take its toll on him.

Dariusz never taught him about animal blood, about whether it was even safe for him to consume, so he had to find out the hard way. And yes, it seemed safe, but no, it did not curb the hunger to anywhere near a satisfying level, and if anything, it seemed to make the burning need inside of him grow stronger.

At one point, he felt so famished that he all but attacked his faithful old mare, his only companion in this godforsaken place. How long has he even been riding for? He can’t remember. The time immediately following Dariusz’ death is still mostly a blur to him. All he knows that he was woken up by shouts and hoofbeats in the middle of the night, and he stumbled into the front hall to find Dariusz, black-eyed and fanged, snarling at a group of men armed with stakes and crosses. Henry realised immediately that they were vastly outnumbered, that fighting would not get them anywhere.

“Run, Henry!” Dariusz shouted without so much as turning around to him, and the next moment one of the men turned towards him, and his head exploded with a sharp, stabbing pain he had never felt before. And he backed away, and he ran. But not before he all but felt the connection between him and his sire shatter, like a cord snapped in the centre of his chest, and he knew that Dariusz hadn’t made it.

And he ran and he ran, and then he stole a horse from the local stables and he ran faster, further, not caring which direction he was going in. They were onto them. They had found them. He had to leave.

He has no idea where he got to, but he knows he must have crossed at least one border, possibly two. The barmaid in the last inn he stayed at spoke in a very odd dialect indeed, and she spent most of the night smiling and giggling and rolling her eyes as she taught him the basics, before he sank his teeth into her milky pale throat.

That was several days – weeks? – ago now, and he can’t wait to sleep in a real bed with a crackling fire and a soft warm body beside him again. Kicking the grey mare on down the winding mountain pass, he speeds on in the direction of the castle.

***

It is dark by the time he brings his mare to a halt in front of the large, wooden gate at the entrance to the castle. To his surprise, there do not seem to be any further houses, no village, as he had expected. Just a vast, eery looking castle built onto the mountain top, grey stone walls reaching truly dizzying heights next to him. With a small frown on his face, he jumps off and leads the horse closer towards the gate and uses the heavy circular door knocker. 

There is no response for a long moment, but he can hear hurried steps inside, a woman’s, if he is not completely mistaken, and a soft, faraway voice calling, “My lord, my lord! There is someone at the gates!” Then there is more shuffling, a male voice that he can’t quite make out, and a moment later, one of the doors opens, and before him stands a pretty young maid with long brown hair tied up in a bun, and curious light green eyes. 

“Ma’am,” Henry says, smiling and inclining his head. “I apologise for the late intrusion. I have been travelling far, in search of an inn, and I am hoping you and your master could provide shelter for me, for just a night or two?”

The maid’s eyes wander from him, taking in his unwashed and unkempt appearance, to his tired grey mare, burdened down as she is with heavy saddle bags. “I will have to—”

“It’s fine, Cristina,” a voice speaks up behind her, and Henry’s eyes snap up to find a tall, dark-haired man standing in the front hall of the castle, illuminated only by the dim, flickering light of a small handful of candles. As if aware of Henry’s eyes on him, the man looks across the hall to meet them, his own eyes narrowing ever so slightly when they do. “Let him in. We have space and more than enough food for one extra person.”

“Thank you, sir,” Henry says, nostrils flaring at the proximity of the maid, her blood smelling sweet and rich on the breeze, and his gaze is drawn to the faint, blue-purple veins visible under her pale skin. Forcing his eyes away from her, he smiles across the hall to the man and adds, “I’m not actually particularly hungry.”

“Oh, but you look like you are famished,” the man continues with a cordial smile of his own. “Come in and have some meat and cheese, I insist.”

“Thank you, sir,” Henry repeats, giving a sideways glance to his mare. The man follows his gaze, before he turns towards the maid and says, “Go fetch Radu, girl.”

“The hour is late, my lord, I’m sure he will have finished for the d—” 

“I don’t care what time it is, Cristina, he will have to make sure that our guest’s horse is fed and watered, you understand me?” the man interrupts, with more force then perhaps necessary.

“Of course, sir,” Cristina says in a small voice, before turning and disappearing into the castle. 

The man turns back around to Henry then with a smile on his face. “I apologise for Cristina. She hasn’t been with me very long.”

“Not to worry, sir,” Henry says, mirroring his smile. 

“Dracula,” the man says then, and Henry’s eyes narrow. 

“Excuse me?”

“That is my name,” the man explains, with another smile. “I am Count Dracula, the lord of this…” he gestures along the sky-high walls of the castle around them, “…humble abode.”

“It’s… very impressive, sir,” Henry says, then quickly adds, “Count.”

“Sir is fine,” Dracula says. “I am not too fussy about titles. What are they but a sign of mindless vanity? What have I ever done to deserve that title?”

“I wouldn’t be able to say, sir,” Henry says, frowning, and the count laughs.

“Exactly.”

At that moment, a gate to Henry’s right side opens, and a young, strawberry blond man with curious brown eyes steps through, inclining his head to Henry and wordlessly gesturing towards his mare.

“Of course,” Henry says, and the young man grabs the mare’s reins and leads her away without saying a single word.

“He is not much of a talker, our Radu,” the count says, and Henry turns back around to face him. “But he does know what he is doing with the horses, and that is the main thing, is it not?”

“Certainly,” Henry says, nodding, and he watches as the count steps aside and gestures for him to follow. Taking one last, thoughtful look at the ominous grey walls rising up all around him, he finally steps over the threshold into the front hall of the castle.

***

The dinner table is well enough laid that it makes even Henry’s mouth water, and he feels tendrils of hunger lick along the inside of his stomach as he takes a seat across from the count at the large table.

“Wine?” the count asks, holding up a carafe filled with a dark red liquid that gets Henry’s imagination going, and he lets out a sharp breath through his nostrils, trying to keep his composure.

“Yes, thank you,” he says, with as much calm as he can muster, holding his glass out to Cristina and doing his best not to look up at the inviting veins under her skin as she pours him a generous glass. Bringing it up to his mouth, he lets the sharp, slightly sour taste of the wine roll over his tongue and down his throat, so unsatisfactory, so disappointing, before looking over at the count and forcing a smile onto his face. “An excellent wine, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mr…” he leaves a long, expectant pause, looking across at Henry, who nods briskly.

“Henry,” he says.

Dracula’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly, an exasperated smile appearing on his lips. “Just Henry?”

Henry’s eyes widen, and he gropes around his head for a surname. He doesn’t have a surname. He never did, he was never asked for one. It never mattered before. “Henry… Yorke?” he says eventually, remembering something he was told as a small boy about his father. It’s as good a name as any, and this Count Dracula would never know the difference.

“Mr Yorke,” the count repeats. “It is a rare 1524 vintage, one of the best in my cellar, I have been told.”

Henry’s eyes widen once more, as he drops the glass away from his lips and places it back down on the table. “My lord, you shouldn’t have—”

“I don’t often get visitors,” the count replies with a genial smile towards him. “It is my pleasure, Mr Yorke. Now, don’t let me keep you from sampling some of the meat and cheese. They are all fresh, and far too much for just myself.”

Henry lets his eyes wander across the decadently set table, and he can’t help but silently agree. Helping himself to some of the food, he frowns across at the count and asks, “So you are living here alone? No… lady of the house?”

A dark shadow passes over Dracula’s face. “Sadly, no,” he says, his voice almost an octave lower than before. Silence follows his words for a long moment, before he clears his throat and, with a smile that looks a lot more forced than before, says, “One thing I have meant to ask you, Mr Yorke… where is your accent from? It is unlike anything I have ever heard before.”

“England, sir,” Henry says, and Dracula’s eyes widen.

“England,” he repeats, wondrously. “You are a long way from home then.”

“That I am, my lord,” says Henry. “I went to sea, ended up in Poland, worked as a mercenary for a while,” he rattles off, trying not to sound too bored, but the count listens to his every word with rapturous interest, eyes dancing in the candlelight.

“A mercenary,” he muses, almost to himself. Then he looks up at Henry and asks, “Have you ever gone into battle?”

“I did, yes,” Henry says, and Dracula smiles.

“Ahh, there’s nothing like it, is there? The feeling of taking your enemy’s life on the battlefield, of seeing their eyes glaze over in those last few seconds before their soul drifts away and leaves only an empty shell behind.”

Henry clears his throat. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience, my lord.”

“That I am,” Dracula says, nodding. “I went to war several times in our struggle against the Turks.” His eyes meet Henry’s across the table. “What about yourself? Where did you fight?”

“The Battle of Orsha, sir,” Henry blurts out before he can stop himself.

The count lets out a breathless laugh. “I heard of that battle when I myself was little more than a boy,” he says, giving Henry a scrutinising look. “ _You_ can’t have been more than a small child at the time.”

“I’m older than I look,” Henry says, holding the count’s gaze. 

Dracula doesn’t reply straight away, but Henry can see one eyebrow lifting incrementally, and a small, intrigued smirk playing on the man’s lips. “Anyway, enough talk of war,” he says after a long moment of silence. “What brings you to this remote part of Romania?”

“Romania?” Henry repeats, surprise in his eyes. “I must have come further than I thought.”

Dracula barks out a sharp laugh. “Good man, you didn’t even know which country you were travelling through?”

“I… have been travelling for a long time,” Henry replies, busying himself with a mouthful of bread and meat. 

“It sounds more like you have been running away from something,” the count says in a matter-of-fact voice, and Henry’s eyes snap up.

“What makes you say that? Sir?”

“Just a feeling, Mr Yorke,” the count replies, giving him another scrutinising look. “Just a feeling.”

Henry clears his throat. “Well, I suppose you are not wrong,” he relents after a moment, taking another mouthful of food. “I left my home after my… father… was attacked by… criminals.”

“Your father?” Dracula asks at once. “You told me you left England many years ago.”

Henry swallows. “I was meaning it in a figurative way,” he replies with a small smile. “He was like a father to me. Took me in, taught me… things.” His smile turns melancholic as he thinks back to Dariusz. “He died in the attack,” he continues eventually. “So, yes, I ran. I don’t think you can blame me.”

“Certainly not,” Dracula agrees, nodding. “Well, stay here as long as you need to, Mr Yorke. God knows I could do with some company, and I have not had such lively conversation since… well.” He pauses, looks down, before his gaze comes back up to meet Henry’s across the table, a glint in his eyes, a small smile on his lips. “You intrigue me, Mr Yorke.”

Henry’s eyebrows shoot up and a small smile spreads across his own lips, even as the hunger flares up painfully in his gut. “Indeed,” he says, and Dracula nods.

“Yes.”

There is a moment of silence, in which the hunger grows and spreads across his body, until he coughs loudly and says, “I should… probably check on my mare, if you don’t mind, my lord.”

“Of course,” Dracula says with another smile. “Go ahead, Cristina will show you the way to the stables.”

***

The stable block is small for a castle of this size, Henry thinks, as he walks through the wide gates into the courtyard. The flicker of candlelight can be seen from the furthest stable, and he walks past the count’s impressive looking horses – a couple clearly bred for the carriage, and a further three that look more like light riding horses – to find his own scruffy grey mare in the last stable, and Radu, the stable boy, is in the process of pouring water into a large basin from a cast-iron bucket. 

At his approach, the blond man looks up, and his eyes widen in surprise.

“Sir!” he says, instinctively taking a step away from him, further into the stable. His mare gives him a curious look before going back to eating the hay in one corner of the stable. 

Henry absentmindedly pats her on the neck, his eyes roaming over the stable boy. “So you can speak,” he says, a smile flashing across his face, and Radu swallows thickly.

“I can indeed, sir,” he says. “I simple don’t fancy it much.”

“Fair enough,” says Henry, his hand carding through the horse’s thick mane, even as he never takes his eyes off the blond man. 

“I hope everything has been done to your satisfaction, sir,” Radu says, gesturing around the stable, and Henry smiles.

“You have done a very good job, Radu,” he says, taking another step closer to the man. “A very good job indeed. There is just one more thing you can do for me.” 

Radu shoots him a nervous glance. “Sir?” he asks, the word muffled at the end by Henry’s finger coming up and lying against his lips, and his eyes widen.

“Shh,” Henry says. “You have to be nice and quiet now. You don’t want anyone to come running from the castle, after all.”

“Wha’d’ou’meh, sir?” Radu manages to force out around the finger pressed to his lips.

“I mean,” Henry says, leaning in and letting his breath ghost against the man’s long, slender neck, “that you wouldn’t want poor Cristina witnessing what is about to happen next.”

“Wha’tha?” Radu asks, but Henry doesn’t reply. Instead, he pulls back a few inches, just enough that he can see the stable boy’s face, and he gives him a bright smile, showing off two sharp, pointed fangs. He can just about see the realisation dawn on Radu’s face before he leans in again and pierces that long slender neck with his teeth. 

Radu struggles against him, tries to push him away, But Henry holds on to him with an iron grip, uses his body weight and superior strength to push the other man up against the stable wall, the finger on his lips replaced by the palm of his hand as he muffles the panicked screams now trying to escape from the other’s mouth. Sweet, fresh blood floods into his mouth, and he lets out a muffled moan against the other’s skin as he feels a pleasant tingle grow and spread across his body, so familiar and yet so sorely missed for such a long time, and he greedily sucks at the other man’s throat until the flow becomes nothing more than a slow, intermittent trickle, and he eventually pulls away, takes a step back, watches through glazed eyes as the body in front of him slides down the wall and onto the floor.

Bringing up one hand to wipe a stray trickle of blood away from his chin, he looks down at the lifeless body of the stable boy. “Thank you, Radu,” he says, ever so slightly breathless. “You have done an excellent job indeed.”

***

“Sir,” Cristina’s voice greets him as he reenters the castle, and his eyes wander towards her just in time to see her give him a small curtsy. “My lord has asked me to show you to your quarters, sir,” she continues. “I have prepared a bath for you.”

“Thank you, Cristina,” he says, giving her a smile that in hindsight might be a little too bright, but right now, he couldn’t care less. 

“No worries, sir,” Cristina says. “Follow me, please.” And she walks off towards the large, winding staircase that seems to be the very centre of the castle, or so it looks to him, in any case. 

“This is quite an impressive building,” he says again, eyes darting around him as he follows her up and up and up the stairs. 

Cristina lets out a clear, high-pitched laugh. “You can be honest with me, sir,” she says, her eyes dancing as she looks back at him. “It’s more eery than impressive, really.”

Henry chuckles. “Let’s agree it’s impressively eery,” he suggests, and she nods. Then he gives her a thoughtful look. “Is it really just you and the count…?”

“And Radu,” she says immediately, and he nods. 

“Of course.”

“And then there’s Marta, the cook, and Luca, the groundsman,” she says, biting her lip. Henry does his best not to pay too much attention to the way it makes the blood shift under the thin, pink skin. 

“Still not an awful lot of people for a castle of this size,” he continues, and she nods again. 

“I think you might be right, there, sir.” They come to a halt in front of a heavy wooden door, and Cristina smiles. “This is it, sir. As I said, I prepared a bath for you, and I lit a fire so you won’t get cold in the night.”

“Thank you, Cristina,” he says, throwing her another perhaps too bright smile, and she blushes and averts her eyes. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome, sir,” she says with another curtsy, before she turns and disappears back down the bleak stone corridor.

Henry pushes the door open to find a large room with a spacious double bed against one wall, and a bath filled with clean water in an opposite corner. His bags have been stored against the wall by the window, and Henry walks over, lets his eyes wander across what is an impressive view of the mountain range, the moon standing big and bright in the sky, illuminating the scene. 

The stable boy’s blood is thrumming through his body with a satisfying buzz, and he quickly strips himself of the soiled, muddy clothes he has been wearing for what must have been at least the past week, and walks over to the bath, tentatively dipping the tips of his fingers into the water. It is warm, he realises with a smile. Cristina must have heated the water over the fire before pouring it in. 

Letting out a deep, satisfied hum, Henry lets himself sink into the water, his mind trying to think back to the last time he had a proper bath. He can practically feel the dirt of weeks of travel and sleeping under the stars and hunting animals through the woods fall off of him, and he sighs happily, letting his head fall back against the side of the bath and closing his eyes. 

The combination of the warm blood flowing through his veins and the warm water all around him almost manage to put him to sleep, and he has to make a conscious effort to eventually push himself out of the water and dry himself off on the flannels that Cristina left by the side of the bath, before, without another conscious thought, he collapses on the surprisingly soft and comfortable bed and drifts off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***  
  
The sun stands low in the sky by the time Henry’s eyes open again, and it bathes the room in a warm, comforting, orange glow. He can still feel Radu’s blood coursing through his veins, silencing the ever present hunger for once, and he sighs deeply as he stretches his arms out high above his head, a small, content smile on his face as he watches the large orange orb slowly sink behind the mountain tops in the distance, and slowly, the smile is replaced by a thoughtful frown.

Has he slept all day? He certainly hasn’t felt this well rested for weeks. Trying to trudge back through his memories, he desperately tries to remember the last thing that happened to him.

Has he lost time again? Surely not. That hasn’t happened since… since he was turned, and he thought he was finally free of the constant, distressing back and forth that plagued his mind in his human life. 

No, he decides, slowly shaking his head at himself. It was merely the blood rush making him sleepy. Nothing to be alarmed about.

By the time he got shaved and dressed and is making his way down the endless spiral staircase towards the dining hall, the sun has completed its journey beyond the peaks of the mountain tops, and the castle lies in darkness. Not, Henry thinks, that it would have made much of a difference. The majority of the rooms lie in the centre of the castle and do not, in fact, benefit from any direct sunlight.

“Mr Yorke.”

Henry’s head whips around as the unmistakable sound of the count’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and he sees the man standing in the doorway to the dining hall, tall and imposing as ever, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips.

“My, my, aren’t you a creature of the night,” Dracula says, eyes sparkling. “I was beginning to think you had made a run for it. I had to send Cristina up to your room around midday to check you were actually still there.”

“My apologies,” Henry says quickly, averting his eyes, even as Dracula gestures for him to step through the door into the dining room.

“Not at all, my dear Henry,” he says, and Henry’s eyes snap up at the unexpected use of his first name. The count, however, doesn’t give any indication that anything is amiss, as he meets Henry’s eyes with a serene expression in his own, gesturing towards the once again fully set dining table. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir,” Henry says, eyes roaming across the frankly obscene amounts of food in front of him once more. Lifting his eyes to meet the count’s, he is surprised to see the other watching him with keen interest.

“It looks to me as if a warm bath and a good night’s sleep have transformed you into a new man, Mr Yorke. You are positively glowing tonight.”

Henry smiles and holds the other’s gaze with a steely one of his own. “I put it down to the excellent food and inspiring company, myself,” he says. “But I do admit that I feel rather refreshed.”

“There is plenty more food to have,” Dracula says, gesturing to the opulently laid out table. “Please help yourself.”

Henry lets out a small laugh. “I’m afraid I may have rather overdone it last night, sir,” he says. “My appetite is rather muted tonight.”

Dracula’s eyebrows lift. “Well, in that case, I hope you still accept the offer of my company.”

“Of course,” Henry says, looking up as Cristina approaches the table, pouring him another generous glass of wine. “Thank you, Cristina,” he says, and she smiles and blushes.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“That’s all for now, Cristina, thank you,” Dracula says in a loud, authoritative voice, and the girl whirls around to him, gives a quick curtsy and disappears through a side door. Then Dracula’s gaze lands on him once more, and there is a question in his eyes. “The stable boy,” he says, leaving the statement hanging unfinished in the air, and Henry frowns. 

“What about him?” he asks nonchalantly, taking a careful sip of wine.

“He disappeared,” Dracula continues. “I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”

“Me, sir?” Henry asks, eyes widening. “What makes you think—”

“You are the last person to have seen him,” Dracula says. “When you went to check on your horse after dinner last night. I merely thought…” his forehead creases in thought, “I thought that he may have said something to you.”

Henry clears his throat loudly. “Now that you mention it, he did, sir,” he says, nodding briskly. “He said that he has had just about enough looking after all of these horses on his own, and that one of these days, he is going to take one of them and ride off to the city to get himself a better job.”

The count huffs loudly. “That sounds about like him. When he did speak, that is. And as a matter of fact, one of the horses _is_ missing.”

 _Of course it is,_ Henry thinks. _I set it free._ Giving the count a small, commiserating smile, he says, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Dracula looks up at him, and there is something almost like hope in his eyes. “That does mean I have a vacant position to fill, if you are in search of a more permanent arrangement.”

“Me, sir?” Henry asks once more, but out of genuine surprise this time.

“You seem to know your way around horses well enough,” the count says with a small shrug, before, with a piercing look across the table, he adds, “And I do rather enjoy your company.”

“I… thank you for the generous offer, sir,” Henry says, “but I’m not sure—”

“Think about it, that is all I am asking,” Dracula says, giving him a look that invites no argument. 

“Of course, my lord,” Henry says, before he takes another sip of wine, his eyes once again wandering around the large, windowless room. “You say you have been to war,” he says after a moment, looking back at the count, who nods. 

“That I have. Several times,” Dracula replies, an almost melancholic smile on his face. “It was fun while it lasted. But nothing lasts forever.” The smile vanishes from his face, to be replaced by the same dark look Henry remembers seeing there once before, last night. “And following my last battle, I retired to this…” his eyes dart around the room, “…lovely hideaway in the mountains.”

“Alone?” Henry asks, and Dracula nods without looking at him.

“Yes. Alone.”

Henry clears his throat. “I… couldn’t help but notice the lack of… natural light… in the majority of the castle,” he says carefully, and Dracula’s eyes dart over to him once more.

“But surely that wouldn’t be a problem for a creature of the night such as yourself,” he says, a small, teasing smirk on his lips that Henry can’t help but return.

“I was more speaking about yourself.”

Dracula holds his gaze in silence for a long moment, and every trace of humour is gone from his face when he says, “What beauty is there in a sunrise when you haven’t got anyone to share it with?”

Henry swallows thickly. “Indeed,” he says after a moment. “But perhaps you have just not found the right person to share it with.”

“No,” the count replies, his keen eyes once again boring into Henry’s. “Perhaps not. Or perhaps this is not about sunlight at all.”

Henry’s eyes narrow. “Sir?”

Dracula gives him a small smile. “Forgive me, I… rather let myself get carried away. Please, have some more wine. The carafe will need to be emptied tonight.”

“Thank you, sir,” Henry says with a smile of his own, pouring himself another glass before standing up and walking across to the other end of the table to pour a glass out for Dracula, but the count’s hand flies out, coming to lie across his own and stop his movement, and at once, Henry sees his eyes widen.

“No more for me, thanks,” Dracula breathes, his gaze fixed on where his fingers still lie against the back of Henry’s hand, before he finally looks up at him with a quizzical expression on his face. “Your skin is so cold. Almost…”

“Almost what?” Henry asks, pulling his hand gracefully out of the other’s loose grasp and placing the carafe down on the table in front of him. 

“No, nothing,” Dracula says, shaking his head. “I should perhaps put another log on the fire, it has become rather chilly in these old walls.”

“Yes,” Henry agrees, nodding. “It is a bit cold, isn’t it. I hadn’t even noticed it before.” He slowly walks back to his own end of the table, takes a seat and lifts the wine glass to his lips, while Dracula gets up and places a thick log of wood onto the large, ornate fireplace.

“I apologise,” he says as he takes a seat back at the table across from Henry. “I am not used to having guests.”

Henry laughs. “I have spent the last few weeks with no fixed roof over my head, my lord. A little chill due to a low burning fire is nothing to concern me.”

“Indeed,” says Dracula, his eyes back on Henry, a small crease in his brow. “With the way the weather has been, I’m surprised you haven’t frozen to death out there.”

“I’m not easy to kill,” Henry says, smiling as he sees the count’s eyes light up for just a second. 

“That is the impression I am getting from you, young Henry,” he says, and, without giving Henry a chance to respond, adds, “Now, you may have just got up, but I have been awake all day, and it is getting rather late, so please excuse me if I leave you on your own for the rest of the night. Do feel free to make yourself at home, and—” he gives Henry a significant look “—think about my offer.”

“I will, sir,” Henry says with a nod, and with a nod and a smile in return, Dracula disappears through the large doors into the front hall.

Having slept all day, Henry finds himself not at all tired enough to go to sleep, so once he has finished his glass of wine, he decides to leave the dining hall and explore the castle on his own. 

The winding corridors and staircases don’t seem to follow any kind of logic, but he keeps going until, a good half hour or so into his exploration, he stumbles across an extensive library that makes his newly literate heart stutter out an extra beat as he browses through the myriads of books at his disposal. Ever since Dariusz taught him the basics of literacy, he has not been able to stop himself from reading about all the ancient legends and stories he could get his hands on.

He is so engrossed in one of the books, an account of an ancient Roman battle, that he doesn’t even notice how late it gets until faint slithers of sunlight shine in through the narrow, high-set windows of the library, and he sets the book aside and makes his way back to his room, pulling the curtains across the window and falling into bed, asleep before his head so much as hits the pillow.

*** 

The sun is once again low in the sky when he wakes up, and the first thing he notices is that the hunger is back, just a small, smouldering flame, licking at his insides, but he knows from experience that if he doesn’t act on it, it will grow and spread and eventually consume him. 

He lifts himself out of bed, reaches for his razor. There is no reason not to make himself look his best, even if he has once again slept through almost an entire day. Finishing his shave in the last remaining daylight, he quickly gets dressed and makes his way down the by now familiar staircase, a frown settling on his face when he steps into the dining hall and finds it empty. 

“Sir?” he calls, looking around the large empty room for a moment, before, louder, he calls, “Count Dracula?”

“The count seems to be delayed on his journey back from town,” Cristina’s voice speaks up behind him, and he whirls around to see her walking towards him, a small, shy smile on her face. “He left at first light to see to some financial matters, but we haven’t seen him since.”

“I see,” Henry says, and without his conscious input, his eyes come to rest on the faint blue veins in her throat, and the sound of her heartbeat echoes loudly in his ears.

“I’m sure he would be happy for you to settle down for dinner without him,” Cristina says, clearly unaware of his sudden shift in focus, and he finds himself nodding absently.

“I could certainly do with some dinner,” he says, his voice dry and raw, and he clears his throat loudly. 

“Why don’t you take a seat at the table then, sir, and I—”

“No,” Henry says, one hand coming up to lightly cup her cheek. “Not quite yet, I think.”

He can feel Cristina stiffen slightly under his touch. “Sir, I’m not sure it would be appropriate—”

“Oh, but no one is going to know, are they?” Henry purrs leaning closer to her, so close that she can probably feel his words against her lips. 

“No, sir,” she agrees, and he can see her eyes flicking down to his mouth for a split second, before they come back up to meet his own. 

He leans in even closer, then, close enough for his lips to just brush against hers, and he can feel her moving towards him when a moment later, he pulls away again, and moves across to the side of her head instead.

“Thank you, Cristina,” he whispers into her ear, and he feels the slightest ghost of a shiver pass through her. 

“For what, sir?” she breathes, not moving an inch as his lips trail down feather-lightly from her ear down the side of her neck.

“For this,” he replies, and sinks his teeth into her skin.

A surprised, pained cry escapes from Cristina’s mouth, and Henry’s hand flies out almost reflexively, covering her mouth.

“Shhh,” he whispers as he lifts his mouth away from her for just a second, before the smell and the sight and the taste of the blood becomes too much, and he leans in again, lets the sweet red blood flow into his mouth. Slowly, slowly, he feels her life energy drain away from her, and he lifts his hand back off her mouth when he is confident that she has no energy left to scream anymore.

The silence continues for a long moment, until a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the room makes Henry’s eyes dart up. 

There, in the doorway, stands no other than Count Dracula, eyeing the scene in front of him with a keen interest in his eyes that seems utterly inappropriate in the face of what he has just witnessed. Henry lets go of the lifeless body of the girl, and he is vaguely aware of her crashing into the table beside him. His tongue darts out before he can help himself, licking away some stray drops of blood from his lips.

The count’s eyes flick down to his mouth then, and he visibly swallows. “I knew there was something different about you,” he says coolly, taking a step into the room even as Henry slowly backs away from him. “What are you?” the count asks. “What kind of creature feeds on the blood of living people?”

“A vampire,” Henry says, his back hitting the wall as Dracula continues his steady approach.

“Vampire,” the count says slowly, thoughtfully, as if trying the word on for size. Then his gaze wanders down to Cristina’s body slumped against the table, and he sighs. “I take it the same happened to the stable boy?”

“Yes,” Henry croaks, and Dracula’s eyes land on him again.

“A vampire,” he says again, taking another step towards him. He is close enough to touch now, and he lifts a hand and lies it flat against Henry’s chest. “Your heart is not beating, and you’re cold as ice,” he states. “Are you dead?”

“Undead,” Henry rasps, once again subconsciously licking his lips. Then a small frown crosses his face, and he asks, “Why are you not afraid of me?”

Dracula lets out a short, high-pitched laugh. “I’m merely trying to figure you out, young Henry. You intrigue me.”

“That is not an answer to my question though,” Henry says, eyes flicking down towards Cristina’s body. “I killed your staff.” Dracula turns his head to follow his gaze and sighs. 

“Yes, indeed, that’s a shame. It is difficult to recruit staff in this region. It is, after all, very remote.”

Henry lets out a small huff. “What I meant to say was—”

“Yes, Henry, I know what you meant,” Dracula says, turning around to face him again with a small, calculating smile on his face. “But you have not attacked me the last couple of days when you had the chance,” he continues. “And I gather that since you have just—” his eyes flick over to Cristina again, “—fed, it is as good a time as any to speak to you, is it not?”

Henry’s eyebrows shoot up. “I suppose.”

Dracula nods. “Good. So, tell me, young Henry, who fought in the Battle of Orsha. Does ’undead’ mean that you cannot die?”

Henry licks his lips again, the fresh blood coursing through his veins making it hard for him to think. “I have already died,” he says eventually, and Dracula frowns.

“And yet you stand before me, living and breathing,” he says.

Henry nods. “Yes.”

“And will you be like this, frozen in time, forever?” Dracula continues, lifting the hand that previously lay against his chest to lightly brush against the side of his face. 

“Yes,” Henry says again. 

Dracula smiles. “And, my dear Henry, are you able to pass on this gift that has been bestowed to you?”

Henry’s eyes widen, even as he finds himself nodding again. “Yes,” he breathes, almost too quiet for the count to hear.

There is a moment of perfect silence, before the count steps away from him, a grim, determined expression on his face. “Do it,” he commands, and Henry frowns.

“But, sir, why would you want—”

“Just do it,” Dracula says again. “Make me into what you are. A vampire. A… creature of the night. I have had enough of this miserable life, with all the prospects I have from here on out just to grow old and feeble and eventually die. I want what you have. I want eternal youth and beauty and power. Share your gift with me, Henry, I implore you.”

Henry looks at him in silence for a long moment, before eventually, he gives a curt nod. “All right.”

“All right,” Dracula echoes. “How do you—”

But the rest of the sentence is lost in a loud, agonised scream as Henry launches himself at him and sinks his fangs into his neck.

*** 

When Dracula awakes, he is alone. He is lying on the cold stone floor of the dining hall, next to the long dead body of his faithful maid. His eyes widen as they fall on her, and memories of recent events come flooding back to him. Henry flying towards him at an unnatural speed, a searing, burning pain in the side of his neck…

He sits bolt upright, eyes widening as he looks down at himself, alive and unharmed. One of his hands flies up to his neck, feeling nothing but supple, if slightly cold skin against his fingertips, and he frowns. Was it all just a dream, what happened? Did he have too much to drink last night? But no, he thinks, as his eyes once again land on Cristina’s body next to him, and this time, they home in on the large, gaping wound in the side of her neck, the blood all but dried now, but he can nonetheless still smell it.

And oh, is it the most delicious smell he has ever smelled. It makes a never before felt hunger awaken in his gut, and he swiftly pushes himself to his feet, makes his way through the small side door into the kitchen, where his eyes fall first on the freshly baked bread on the counter, then on the roasted pork joint cooling by the side of the oven, before they come to rest on Marta, the cook, and he smiles.

“My lord? What brings you to the kitchens at this late hour?” Marta asks, a slight edge of nervousness in her voice as he slowly approaches her. “Was dinner not to your satisfaction?”

“Oh, to the contrary,” Dracula says, the smile on his face widening. “It was excellent as always, Marta. What time is it?”

Marta frowns. “It is… a few minutes to midnight, sir. I was just about to finish up and retire for the night, but if there is anything else you need—”

“There might just be one thing,” Dracula says, before he launches himself at her, a strange, unfamiliar itch in his gums as a pair of sharp, pointed fangs break through, and remembering what he saw from Henry last night, he punctures the plump cook’s skin until the sweetest taste he has ever known flows into his mouth, and he swallows greedily. 

“Sir, sir, no,” Marta calls, struggling against him, but he holds her in a steady grasp, not allowing her to get away until he gets every last drop of that delicious red liquid out of her. Finally, he lets her lifeless body go, and walking across the kitchen to the window he looks out across the mountain range, where, in the faint light of the moon, he thinks he can just about make out the shape of a grey horse galloping along in the distance, carrying its rider swiftly away from the castle. 

“Farewell, Henry, my creature of the night,” he says quietly, watching the horse’s steady progress along the mountain pass. “May our paths cross again someday.”


End file.
